Coal Black Curls
by Magic Crafter
Summary: Lancelot/Guinevere, Arthur/Guinevere. Guinevere begins to fall in love with Lancelot, despite knowing he is dead, and recieves a surprise. Post-Badon Hill, a little AU. Rated T just to be safe.
1. Memory of Love

_You can't bring all the gloom.  
Your heart is frayed and so empty.  
You glorify the future,  
Living in a different world than me.  
The journey ends in death.  
You are giving up so easily.  
You are the other half of me._

- _The Other Half (Of Me)_, Within Temptation

**A/N: **Not sure where I'm going with this one. It could be L/G or A/G. Hard to say.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing! I'm just playing with the character's heads a little bit. I suppose we all own the actually legend…but that's beside the point.

Badon Hill seemed like a distant memory, fading into the springtime, days growing longer and warmer with the promise of summer to come. The fallen warriors, mysterious Tristan and stormy-eyed Lancelot, would never be forgotten by their remaining comrades, but nor would they be dwelt upon and grieved over too much. They wouldn't have desired such a legacy, after all. Warriors fell in battle, and yet…if only their freedom had not been denied them, if only they had not come back to fight for Arthur.

If only would get no one anywhere.

Being honest with herself, Guinevere realized she had not known any of the knights well on that fateful day. Lancelot's death had still been a cruel blow, but any woman would have been heart-sore losing such a handsome, courageous man. As the days went by, feeling very slow at times, she got to know Bors, Gawain, and Galahad well enough…but usually, if she had her pick, her time was spent with Arthur. Artorious Castus, the Roman…that man was long-gone, from what she could tell. The man who had once preached the glory of Rome faded before her eyes into Arthur of Britannia, a man who had lost many friends and perhaps some of his faith in a useless battle for a falling star of a city.

Compared to Lancelot, the fiercely attractive knight who had been best friend, Arthur would not always be considered equal in appearance. He was much more…well, if she had to admit it, Guinevere would say both noble and weary, for Arthur's face always seemed to be lined and care-worn. Yet he was no older than any of his knights, and in many ways, Arthur struck her as naïve. She wondered why he would not accept that the Roman God was as much a falsehood as everything else about the fabled conquering empire. Its days were done. Though he did not actively seek to convert Britons from their pagan ways, he continually prayed to his God, and sometimes she would watch him, curious but never so much so to bring herself to ask. Arthur must have felt her eyes, for sometimes at dinner with the remaining knights who had stayed with their commander at Hadrian's Wall, he would try to discuss theology. But certainly if he would try to win anyone over to Christianity, she was the last he should turn to.

On occasion, she would leave Arthur's fortress in the Wall. She wandered out to the training areas, to watch Galahad, Gawain, and Bors, or occasionally she would take out her bow. At such times, her thoughts were free to run wild, for she hadn't any more to do – nothing but concentrate on hitting the center of her targets, which was not a chore. Those thoughts were the reasons she withdrew the bow, the arrows, the old life, less and less. Guinevere did not trust her thoughts.

Despite having seen him as an enigma in life, in death Lancelot's appeal lingered. She remembered the eve of Badon Hill, when she had gone to Arthur – ready to give to him what, in his Christian mind, was a woman's greatest prize. She could see Lancelot's face, concerned – those storm-cloud eyes watching her, no doubt observing the tousled gown, her lips swollen with kisses. Arthur's kisses. _What makes you think he would be looking at you in such a way, then?_ Her conscience sneered. It was a fair question. Lancelot had never shown her an interest that was further than loose friendship, nor had she resented that.

Perhaps the real reason thinking of the knight bothered her so, besides the impossibility of seeing him again, was guilt. Guilt forever troubled her if she let her mind stray that way. Especially when she was with her bow, fingers curled tightly around the weapon, she could recall with a sad smile that it was Arthur who had saved her life. Arthur had saved her hand. She owed everything to him. He deserved nothing less than her heart and her devotion. Yet it had been Lancelot, had it not, who had carried her from her prison?

Guinevere closed her eyes tightly. _No. Lancelot is dead._ Her grip on the arrow suddenly slackened; it flew sickeningly into the bull's eye, and only then did she open them. He was dead, dead from a crossbow – a crossbow at close range, wielded by a dirty Saxon with absolutely no degree of honor.

Had she not then felt a hand gently on her shoulder, she felt assured that there would have been tears in her eyes. However, she turned, stunned but dry-faced, and let her bow fall to the ground. It was Arthur. She should not have been so surprised. One look over his shoulder told her that it was late indeed, dusk and nearly night. How long had she been there? _Long enough to make him worry for me._ It was a testament only to the talent of a skilled actress that Guinevere was able to keep a smile on her face and banish the guilt about that, too. She couldn't do everything perfectly. It was simply that, well, didn't poor Arthur have enough to worry about? If only he would remember that she was capable of looking after herself.

"Is it time for dinner, then?" She inquired, a very sorry attempt at beginning a conversation.

Either Arthur did not notice or he didn't much mind, because a smile lit his face. Then he laughed a little and shook his head. "We went ahead and ate without you," He teased, but she figured it was probably true: men and their hunger…nothing should stand in the way of that. "But, I did have something saved for you in the kitchens. Are you hungry?"

Was she? After thinking about her heart, that may or may not have been broken by Lancelot's violent death, after pondering whether or not she wanted to spend the rest of her life with a man who had the world resting on his shoulders and acted as though she was made of glass? No. Yet she would eat if only to ease his mind. Guinevere turned to face him fully, pushing her curtain of shadowy hair over her shoulder in one fluid movement, never allowing her smile to waver.

"Yes, famished," She confessed. "I had not realized how long I had been here."

That, at least, was the truth, so at least she wasn't lying completely. Besides, what could a lie to keep him happy truly hurt? He needed all the happiness he could get. Several of his friends were dead and Rome was forever lost to him. He did not need her to become distant and grief-stricken on top of that.

Reaching out, Guinevere slipped her hand into Arthur's large one. It was all too easy to bring to mind when he had mended the fingers that had been so useless. She had hated him for it at the time, thinking it painful and cruel. How wrong people could be! Arthur was not anything like the Romans who had thrown her in that horrible, stinking place of dying with dear little Lucan. He was half a Briton, the very least that could be said of him.

Silence overtook them as they walked hand-in-hand down the wall. With the sun no longer in view, the air had become suddenly cold, and a shudder ran through her. As if he could tell what she was feeling, Arthur unhooked his great scarlet cloak and draped it about her slender shoulders. For a moment, she was surprised about even that, and her hand went to her throat to keep the cloak from falling. When she met his gaze, his blue-grey eyes held a depth of tenderness that was nearly painful. Could he truly feel so deeply for her?

Arthur paused then, and put his free hand gently across Guinevere's pallid cheek. "What are you thinking, my love?" He asked, softly – it was almost a whisper.

Never before had he called her by such a name, and she swallowed hard. Apparently, things between Arthur and herself were determined to escalate quickly. Soon, he would surely be on his knees requesting to marry her. The thought made her bite her lip, because she was not at all sure what her answer would be if he should feel the need to ask. However, the current question had taken her so off guard that she answered quite honestly.

"I was thinking about Lancelot and Tristan…about Badon Hill. And about you. I cannot imagine the feeling of losing a friend as dear to me as Lancelot was to you." She felt immediately stupid. Bringing up a painful subject would not be in their favor.

However, Arthur only sighed. "They were men who lived to die in battle, Guinevere. I can never forget them – either of them. But there is a life to be lived now." Unspoken was the idea that there was a life for the two of them to share; she understood anyway.

And so they continued in silence, until at last they came to Guinevere's bedchamber, nestled in the small women's quarters of the Wall. How they had come so quickly there, she did not know for sure.

"I will have your meal sent," Arthur said kindly.

Her smile this time was wearier. "You should not dote on me so, Arthur. I am perfectly able to fetch it myself," she protested, but not with much conviction. Now inside the balmy, darkened room, she felt tired. Her arms ached from their constant use, and she knew she was in for an excruciating morning. Perhaps she wished, too, to be away from Arthur…if only for that evening. How could she face him when her mind was on Lancelot?

Without offering an answer, Arthur headed out the door, only to pause and look back when he was standing in the doorframe. "Dream of sweeter things, Guinevere."

"Perhaps I shall. Sleep well, Arthur." _You certainly need to._

He dipped his head to her, and with relief, she collapsed onto the small bed. Without him there, she was free to succumb to her emotions…whatever they might be. _Oh Merlin, Merlin! Why am I here? I am not a lady. I am a warrior. I need the forest, you, our people. I do not need to be forever dwelling on the past. The past is dead. Lancelot is dead._

Tears welled in her eyes then, though she was sure she had shed them all long before. Dead. Gone. Truly. _Are you pleased with your afterlife, Lancelot? Are you pleased to see me here, tormented by a man I scarcely knew?_ There was, of course, no answer. Only a flash of memory, those raven curls, and that seductive smile… Would she ever be happy with Arthur? Could she forget a man she'd noticed hardly at all in life, or would he, in death, continually berate her until she would rather join him in death than continue to live with his mysterious memory?

Still wrapped in Arthur's cloak, she squeezed her eyes shut, and before any food could be delivered, she was deeply asleep.


	2. In Dreams

_To act and damn the consequence;  
How I wish it could be that easy.  
But fear surrounds me like a fence.  
I want to break free.  
All I want is the wind in my hair,  
To face the fear, but not feel scared._

_Wild horses, I want to be like you.  
Throwing caution to the wind, I'll run free too.  
Wish I could recklessly love, like I'm longing to.  
I want to run with the wild horses,_

_Run with the wild horses._

_- Wild Horses,_ Natasha Bedingfield

**A/N: **Starting to look more L/G to me…

**Disclaimer: **Again, none of this is mine…except background knowledge about the legend in general. Only that.

_The field where she stood much resembled the bloodstained battlefield of Badon Hill, yet it was sunny and warm – certainly not covered in bodies, nor was there any soul in sight, save for her. Guinevere was free of Arthur's burgundy cloak, for what need would she have of it when the sun's warmth kissed her cheeks? Her long hair had been caught up in a knot at the back of her head, and she was dressed in a sunny golden gown of soft wool. Everything seemed normal, though she was sure she had never seen such a garment before, much less worn it. She never wore yellow. She never put her hair up._

_Still, she suspected nothing. What could possibly be wrong? All that worried her was the isolation she suddenly felt, the loneliness. Where was everyone?_

_Then a familiar figure appeared on the horizon, riding a wild black mount without a saddle, without reigns…her stomach turned over and her pulse went erratic. She could scarcely believe what she was seeing, but before it seemed possible, the man was there, beside her. He leapt off the stallion, grinning at her undisguised astonishment. He himself, as she was used to seeing him, was all in black, but it was a loose shirt, and his clothing was without weaponry to compliment it._

"_Lancelot," Guinevere breathed, "you're…how…"_

"_How do you know the Dark Magician has not been sending you dreams, my lady, hmm? Are you sure I am real?" When she could not speak, Lancelot only laughed. He reached out a hand, offering it to her. "Go ahead. Put me to the test."_

_Hardly able to breath, Guinevere's fingers closed around his calloused palm. It was warm with life. His eyes waltzed in the glittering sunlight. No, no, Lancelot was dead…she had seen him die. But he was most certainly very alive, the very act of touching him making her skin burn sweetly. Unable to release him, she met his gaze, staring up at him in awe and confusion._

"_I saw you…the arrow…I saw your body burned. I was there, I washed your body! Arthur cast your ashes away," she murmured._

_Lancelot only shrugged, still a picture of faultlessness – of living, breathing perfection, in the afternoon sun, mysterious and sarcastically humorous as she remembered him – but there was something else. He pulled her, gently, closer to him, close enough that with less than a step forward she could have closed the gap completely. Why she hesitated, she was unsure, but it was still difficult to believe. Lancelot, alive. Lancelot, with her, there, free from anyone else. Free from Arthur's constant, watchful eyes. Guilt evaded her utterly: she could not think of Arthur, only of him, a phantom from the grave come back to her in all his solid brilliance. With aggravation, she had to blink tears that had pooled in her eyes away._

"_What you saw does not matter. Not here. Not now." His smile softened and became almost tender if ever she would use that word to describe Lancelot. "This is all that matters, Guinevere. There is something I must tell you. Something I could not tell you before. Think me a coward, if you wish."_

_It was all the reassurance she needed to step closer to him. She lifted one trembling, porcelain hand to lay itself against his shoulder, anxiously, yet somehow feverishly. Contact with him was thrilling and breathtakingly _real_; never did she want to step out of that warmth and…darkness, as it were. She wished to become lost in the ferocious storm that was Lancelot, the Sarmatian knight turned Roman mercenary, never losing his faith or his vigor. The scar, angry and raised, was still there. It made her heart leap hopefully. Perhaps she was not imagining it all._

"_A coward? Never. You will never be a coward. Now, tell me. I will hear you, Lancelot," Guinevere promised in a voice she scarcely believed was her own. She was itching to know what he was getting at, but in her mind, in her very soul, she was sure she could already hear the words. His voicing them could only serve to make them all the more sweet._

_His hand, in turn, was lifted to cup her cheek. He tilted her face up so that their gazes were locked, and that lazy smile never wavered from Lancelot's expression. "Guinevere – I would call you beautiful…but that is far too broad a term. You are divine; surely you make the gods jealous. Yet that is not what I wish to say. I am not a poet. It would be best for me to make my point quickly to preserve my dignity." The knight exhaled deeply in a half-anguished sigh. "You belong to Arthur, for all that I know – and he deserves you beyond what I could ever hope to equal. But Guinevere, my heart is yours. I love you. I have loved you since the first time I lifted you out of that sorry Roman pit."_

_Guinevere was certain that she was forgetting how to breathe. He loved her. He _loved_ her! She could have danced, if she had been able to move. Instead, Guinevere stayed rooted to the spot, laughing out loud. _

"_You love me," the young woman echoed._

_He nodded, the hand moving gently down her jawbone, then stroking her hair._

"_I – you – Lancelot. I love you. I feared… Oh, Lancelot, never leave. Never leave me again. I am not myself without you. You complete me, and I don't even know you. How can that be? Please…stay with me," she pleaded. Admitting it made her feel a hundred years younger and freer. Guinevere watched the sun play off his curls, his eyes, his grin when he heard her reply… his head was bent to kiss her. She closed her eyes, anticipating the taste of him. It would be salty and magical like the sea._

And then, her eyes were open again, in the dim light of dawn, huddled in her bedchamber, her body chilled with the forsaken cloak Arthur had given her the previous night. Guinevere did not know if the extent of that chill was from the temperature alone, and she did not try to stay her tears, which became racking sobs, sobs of sheer agony and desolation. He had been real…he had been hers. Yet now, Lancelot was again no more than ashes blowing in the wind. Instead of wrapped in his arms, she was alone in Hardian's Wall. It was the kind of dream she dreaded, and it had faced her with the reality that she had never been able to accept. The reality of her feelings for Arthur's lost best friend. Finally, her tears were stilled, and grudgingly, she admitted to herself that the dream had been nothing more than that: a sweet, fantastical dream.

Her cries had not gone unheard, it would seem. Arthur appeared a few moments later, deep concern etched in the lines of his face. Would that she never met him! To spare him loving her…worshipping her in a way her deceitful heart would never live up to. To spare him, dear kind Arthur, that…what wouldn't she have given? But in reality, as was so clear to her now, Lancelot was dead. She had to make Arthur happy. In many years, perhaps, she would join her love in the otherworld…but not yet. Now, Arthur's heart was her responsibility. She could not fail him. Or had she already done so?

As he crossed the room, Guinevere stood. His arms went around her and pulled her close. "What has troubled you? What has happened?" How she would love to wash away the fear hidden in his voice!

"Nothing. I am fine, Arthur. All is well. I – I had a nightmare. That is all. A nightmare." _A blessedly real dream, that's what. I never wished to wake, not even for your loving embrace, Arthur – I would have left this world forever if only to stay in that beautiful, impossible dream._

Skepticism masked Arthur's face, and he met her eyes as if they would tell him all. "A nightmare," she repeated. "Believe me. I suffered no harm."

_No, no harm at all…no harm but my heart breaking utterly._

Unable to bear it any longer, Guinevere almost threw herself against him, as if he was not already cradling her. Her lips met his, hungrily, desperately, violently, and she longed for that kiss she had lost upon waking. Arthur and Lancelot were different men, very different men, and though she was able to free one arm and entangle it within Arthur's dark hair, his kiss in return was still too subtle for what she desired. As was so common for Arthur, he was treating her like she might break…perhaps that's how he would act with any woman. Perhaps his personality was simply not made for the same sort of passion that she knew Lancelot's soul contained. But if she compared them for her whole life, compared Arthur to a man she'd never known, much less kissed, she would be more miserable still.

With an inward sigh, she allowed her to consent to his kiss. Her lips parted…and suddenly Arthur pulled himself away from her, looking as though she was in a worse state than he had originally thought. Of course, he would be worried about her, sobbing one moment and practically trying to molest him the next. She had a feeling she would not be permitted by him leave his side that day. That wasn't bothering her: alone, she would remember the love she had never had, and thinking of Lancelot was the last thing she needed to do.

"Come, you must eat something. You were lost to your nightmares before you had the opportunity yesterday evening," Arthur soothed, clasping her hand tightly within his own, and reluctantly, Guinevere permitted him to lead her out.

The remainder of the day passed much too slowly for the liking of Guinevere, who, as she had predicted, remained by Arthur's side for the entirety of it. His diplomacy was important, she realized – but it was hardly very interesting. How she longed to be out in the crisp spring breeze, listening to the knights' jokes, watching them stay almost needlessly in shape – well, perhaps not Bors, but had he ever really been? She would not have liked to meet any of the men in battle if she were not on their side, and Bors was no exception there. Even if the absence would have provided her time to think of Lancelot, she began to regret following Arthur around as would a lost dog. Was that what she was, then?

Sun dipping behind the hills, she sat at dinner with him, making a show of eating. Arthur's prized Round Table, the epitome of equality, only made her sad. Glancing round it, she noticed the sorry lack of dinner guests (hardly guests, but what else might you call a pack of bored, rag-tag knights?) and the absence of Lancelot more acutely than ever.

At long last, Arthur stood and offered her his arm. She cast a wary glance towards the knights, of whom at least Bors looked thoroughly amused, on the verge of laughter, and took it. They had respected her after Badon Hill. Now, she felt very much like any other woman: beautiful to look at, but good for very little else. Without her people beside her, that's what she was. In Roman tradition, and even in the Briton tradition, women were seldom truly equal to men. They were put on pedestals. A pedestal was the very last place Guinevere desired to be.

The corridor was lit by only a few sorry torches, but Arthur maneuvered his way tactfully to his chamber. She stopped by the door, staring at him, incredulity written in her eyes. _His _chamber?

"Is something wrong?" he inquired, suddenly uneasy.

Guinevere had been compliant all day, laughing at his jokes, pretending not to mind watching him complete documents or try to work out alliances. At times, she'd helped him with a suggestion or two. Mostly, she had been there as a sort of comfort for them both. Arthur's love was impossible not to see, and though she did not deserve it, she had already made up her mind to make a good show of returning it. Now, her hesitation was clearly not expected. Her mind drifted briefly back to the kiss she'd practically demanded he return that morning. Perhaps this had something to do with that. He'd been surprised, but probably not displeased. No matter what else he was, and no matter how kind and gentle he had a tendency to be, Arthur was still undeniably a man. She, in turn, was a woman, a beautiful one, and the fact that he was in love with her only fueled whatever desires he felt.

"Oh. No, of course not," she replied, wishing she could stomp on her own foot. She had just rid Arthur of his worries with good company and wine – and now she was undoing her own work, the relaxation that had taken all day to coax out of him. _Stupid, stupid Guinevere._

He decided to take her at her word and smiled, pushing open the door and leading her within. It was a space she might describe as _cozy_, though it was larger than her own bedchamber by far. A fire still burned in the hearth, but it would quickly become dim, more than likely. She had seen it all before – the desk, the tapestries, the comfortable-looking bed, the rug…she'd seen it all, but she hadn't been looking. She'd been focused on Arthur, only Arthur, that night. She hadn't paid Lancelot even one care. How bitterly did she regret it now!

She glanced up when the _click_ of the door closing interrupted her observations. Arthur was still smiling, removing his boots, his sword, and the heavy cloak that after reclaiming from her, he almost always wore. Without all of it, he looked rather vulnerable, like a bear without fangs, but in many ways it made him all the more lovable, at least in her eyes. Younger, almost.

Arthur crossed the room and pulled her into his arms as they had been that morning, and then he bent his head to kiss her. Guinevere felt her arms, which she had loosely draped around his shoulders, tighten instinctively when she realized it was not one of Arthur's soft kisses – it was full of flames, probably encouraged by a goblet or two more of wine than he usually had. She returned the kiss eagerly, and in response to her eagerness, he began to move them both towards the great bed, passion and something else – lust? – dancing in his eyes. But…she wasn't sure she was going to like where his thoughts were going, and as best she could (Arthur was, by no means, weak) Guinevere freed herself, standing a few paces away.

Ignoring the gaze where hurt that had replaced fire as quickly as it had come, she shook her head, ebony hair tumbling into her eyes which she had to subsequently push away. "Not tonight, Arthur. Not tonight. There will always be other nights," she insisted.

A forced smile came in response to her words, and she at least consented to laying beside him, trying to sleep. His breath quickly evened out, and for a moment in the dying firelight, Guinevere turned to study his face. It broke her heart to know he could never be all to her that she was to him. She traced the smoothed-over lines, so familiar, with two fingers, barely touching him in order not to wake him. But apparently, he was not deeply enough asleep not to notice, for a much more natural, peaceful smile crept onto his face, and he wrapped a protective arm around her. She was close enough then to feel his heartbeat and the heat of his breath, which lulled her to sleep despite her best efforts to resist.

_The field – again. Guinevere was overjoyed to see the place she knew would only be there in her dreams, and she could not wait to see him. Instead, she ran across the hillside, into Lancelot's arms as though she had never left them. He was perfect, as she remembered. He was handsome, all smiles…and she felt her heart return to her after a long, long day._

"_You did not grieve so much for me today," he teased._

_She laughed and felt his angel-soft kiss against her brow. "No," she relented. "I was busy watching Arthur's long-winded peacemaking."_

_At the mention of Arthur, he frowned slightly, and she instantly regretted mentioning him. Anything that marred the happiness of her dreams…anything that took valuable time that she would never have in life away from them could not be a good thing. But Lancelot, as always, quickly recovered. He relinquished his hold on Guinevere's waist, and instead took her hand as they had stood the previous evening. "Come, walk with me." His charm was irresistible, and she did not pretend to be reluctant to do his bidding._

_They walked quite a way, the grass soft beneath her bare feet, before he spoke again. "I have much to tell you," Lancelot said. "More than I think you will believe." Not believe him? Impossible. He might be dead, but he was not a liar._

"_Guinevere…you must go to your people. To the forest. After the battle…" The expression he wore suggested he hardly believed everything he was saying himself. "Please. Go home, Guinevere." He left it at that, because apparently he was reluctant to say anything more without further interrogation on the part of Guinevere, who, in her curiosity about this sudden demand, was not about to let it go._

_She frowned a little, though in the unparalleled splendor of her dream, it came away much more as a pout. "Why? What happened after Badon Hill, Lancelot?"_

_The dark knight seemed to be in some kind of pain…or was it fear that had passed like a dark shadow across his beautiful face? Either way, she wished to get rid of it, for even seeing it was far more painful than ever seeing Arthur that way had been. "Merlin. The Dark Magician. He…it was…hemlock, or something – something to take the pain away. I scarcely remember it, Guinevere, but it was some herb that he used – he…the body…the body you saw, he must have disguised someone else's…I can't explain everything to you. I know you cannot believe me. But Merlin, he can tell you. Guinevere, I'm not sure how much longer I might live. It's why I am here, I think, because the only thing holding me to life is a broken body…and…"_

"_And?" She echoed, trying to get her head around everything he was telling her._

_A bitter smile crossed his face. "And you, of course." He became serious, and he pressed his palm against her cheek in a manner that was almost rough. "Go home. Find me. Merlin will take you to me, Guinevere."_

_She was fighting tears, and laid her head gently against his injured shoulder for just a moment. Could it be real, possible? Could he be alive?_

"_I love you," she whispered._

"_I love you," he repeated._

And then she awoke, in the warm darkness of Arthur's chambers. Only one thought raced through her mind, and she could not hesitate for fear of hurting him. There was only one name there, only one reason for breathing. She had to get to the forest. She had to save him. As she pulled herself from Arthur's one-armed embrace, Guinevere's mind repeated once, twice, three times…as long as it took her to see him again.

_Lancelot._


	3. Reunion

_On the ground I lay, motionless, in pain.  
I can see my life flashing before my eyes  
Did I fall asleep? Is this all a dream?  
Wake me up, I'm living a nightmare._

On this bed I lay, losing everything  
I can see my life passing me by.  
Was it all too much or just not enough?  
Wake me up, I'm living a nightmare.

_I will not die, I will survive.  
I feel alive when you're beside me.  
I will not die; I'll wait here for you  
In my time of dying._

_- Time of Dying_, Three Days Grace

Before she could go anywhere, Guinevere heard Arthur stir. If he had not said something, she likely would not have stopped, but in a sleep-laden voice, he called out to her. "Guinevere?" She supposed it could not have been very long after he had fallen asleep. It was, of course, impossible to tell how long dreams lasted. A short dream might stretch on all night, and likewise with those that seemed particularly long.

She turned slightly, trying to smile at Arthur without much success. She simply couldn't linger, waiting for him to understand. "There isn't anything wrong, Arthur," she said faintly, praying that it would be enough for him. She would write him before she went – briefly, very briefly. Rescuing Lancelot would mean breaking his heart, yet he would at least have his best friend returned to him. Even if he lost her…Guinevere was sure Lancelot was a suitable replacement for herself. There would always be other women, always. There could never be another Lancelot. It was likely she viewed herself in a very different light than men, but that was only to be expected.

Grateful more than she could say for his silence, Guinevere hurried to her cold, dark bedchamber, where she had nothing much to do but pin a note to Arthur.

_Arthur, I apologize for how suddenly I have gone. Please do not worry on my behalf. I am perfectly fine, but I must see my people and Merlin. I should return to Hadrian's Wall within a week. If I do not, I will send you word. Keep watch for me, and please understand this is something I cannot delay. – Guinevere_

The paper Guinevere left on the bed, knowing Arthur would find it. He would not be pleased, she was sure…but she could tell him no more than the note had. Not only would he find her story unbelievable, she was sure he would not let her go. Arthur was tolerant and understanding, but every man had his limits. Surely Arthur's would be a preposterous story about his best friend, a man he'd trained with and fought beside, surviving a wound that was almost certainly fatal. _If you knew that I went to Lancelot with love for him in my heart, would you let me go, Arthur? If you knew…_

He did not know. There was nothing stopping her from fleeing to her people, the deep sanctuary of the forest where her love was lying, waiting at death's door for her to come to him. It never crossed her mind that her dream might be nothing more. The look in his eyes and the tone of his voice were enough to convince her.

It took her only a short time to pick a horse that would not be missed from Arthur's stables in Hadrian's Wall. Every moment seemed agonizingly short, ticking away as though they were the last seconds of Lancelot's life. If he had survived, languishing for nearly three months, a small delay on her part could not hurt him, really. However, love and logic were never two facts that mixed well with one another. Guinevere did not even stop to saddle the mare properly, swinging herself across her back, heedless of her gown or her sense of propriety. Who could possibly be observing her hasty departure that would try and stop her? Whether or not Arthur loved her, no law tied Guinevere to him. She was free to come and go as she pleased. That freedom was sweeter than it had ever before been on that cool spring evening.

Only once did she look over her shoulder, with a silent prayer, be it heard by Arthur's God or her own deities: _Let me return with Lancelot by my side. Let me restore Arthur's friend to him, let my heart be restored to me. Otherwise, I would choose not to return at all._

The night grew only stiller and deeper as Guinevere dismounted to approach the Woad settlement, stroking the auburn mane of her mare as she did so. Her footsteps were virtually silent and likely made no mark on the dense floor of the forest, thick with leaves and other natural debris. Nevertheless, Merlin stood there waiting for her, the sight of him filling her with joy. It was a homecoming she had neglected for too long. She hardly felt like one of her people, now, but a Roman woman, Arthur's woman.

She was not Arthur's woman, nor could she ever be. How could she have thought anything else?

"So you have returned to us, my daughter," Merlin said in his gravelly voice, and despite the slightly hint of accusation in the words, a smile spread across her face. Lifting her hand from the horse's warm hide, she treaded across the floor of the Woad camp to put her arms around him. How she had missed him! While she was not biologically any daughter of Merlin's, they were both the closest to family either would ever come. Being raised by a man made him as much her father as the husband of her mother – both of them, valiant though they were said to have been, had died long before Guinevere could have known them. Somehow, even as an orphan, the Woads had been all the family she had needed.

And now, there was Lancelot. "I have," she confirmed softly, "and I have been away too long, Merlin. Forgive me." Too long indeed if it cost Lancelot his life. Would she ever forgive herself? No. Never

Understanding creased Merlin's painted face, and he held her away from him at arm's length for a moment, as if considering whether or not he should confide in her some secret. Understanding was never something she could have pretended to have for Merlin, though perhaps she did not need it: simply being dear to him made all the difference. If Arthur knew how much she loved and trusted a man he seemed to despise, even after their ordeals…well, never mind Arthur, at the moment.

"You have come to see someone." It was not a question, but she nodded. "Come."

Following Merlin, she ducked into a small hut, where a spicy smoke burned her eyes to tears. It was dark save for the small fire pit, and cramped, but there he lay, alive: Lancelot. Her Lancelot. Tears which could not be blamed on tears rolled down her cheeks.

Only a smile was used by Merlin to say farewell to her, and she crouched beside the mat on which he lay, covered with a thick blanket though she felt herself beginning to sweat in the confined space already. Illness provided different standards of comfort. Slowly but surely, Lancelot's eyes opened, as in a miracle, and a pained-looking smile appeared to compliment the grey gaze she had missed so desperately. Days ago, she would never have believed she would be so happy to see him, but her ignorance of her love for him did not matter anymore. All that mattered was keeping him alive. She ran a gentle hand across his face, the tender skin of her palms pricked by the stubble there. Someone had been taking good care of him if he had been shaved recently, then.

Lancelot coughed roughly before he spoke. "You came. Merlin promised me you'd come…"

"I came," Guinevere confirmed, proceeding to brush absently at moist, dark curls. He felt as though he might have a fever, and she wished she could do something – anything – to make him well again. Incapacitated, he was a pitiful sight; besides that, if a person one loved was in pain, it almost always caused them a similar degree of pain, though typically it was not physical but emotional.

"I feared…I know we did not part…I never told you…"

"Shh, shh. Do not speak. Do not waste your strength," she protested, moving her fingers to cover his mouth, but he only kissed her fingertips and raised one weakened hand to pull hers gently away.

"I love you, Guinevere. And there is much I must explain. To you, to Arthur – "

Inexplicably, she laughed. Never had she imagined she might be in any mood to do so, not in the current situation, but he was too stubborn to make her do anything but. Handsome and willful, even in dire straights like his. The young woman shook her head, and running a hand through her thick hair, sighed. Painful it might be to see him so close to death, but that did not outweigh the pure thrill of seeing him alive in the first place. Soon, she assured herself, he would be well. They would ride to Hadrian's Wall – and they would be wed. She would be his forever.

"And I love you, more dearly than I thought possible, my dear knight. But there is time enough for you to explain everything to me. For you _will_ recover, not languish here like you must have been doing. Sleep…and perhaps we will meet in dreams tonight." But meeting him there was enough, and Guinevere laid down beside him, closing her eyes with no thought that was not for him.


	4. An Act of Love

_Seasons are changing and waves are crashing  
And stars are falling all for us.  
Days grow longer and nights grow shorter.  
I can show you I'll be the one.'Cause you're my true love, my whole heart.  
Please don't throw that away.  
'Cause I'm here for you.  
Please don't walk away and  
Please tell me you'll stay._

_I will never let you fall  
I'll stand up with you forever  
I'll be there for you through it all  
Even if saving you sends me to heaven._

- _Your Guardian Angel_, Red Jumpsuit Apparatus

**A/N**: This chapter was inspired by the legend more than the actual movie…don't know how good it is.

**Disclaimer: **I still don't own anything!

The morning light barely filtered through the whole in the top of the little hut, carved out to let the smoke escape. The thick fur Merlin had covered the doorway with obscured all but the most ambitious of the young golden rays. Only the sound of Lancelot's voice shook Guinevere from her dreamless sleep, and her eyes opened, grudgingly, to see his shadowy outline lying beside her. "Guinevere?" His voice sounded frightened…lost. She knew that voice. It had been one Lucan, the darling he was, had used numerous times in their prison. She had been the very last of the living by then. "_Guinevere_?" When she pushed herself up, she could tell he was either still asleep or unaware that she was with him.

"Shhh," she consoled, reaching over to brush his face with her cool fingers. In the dim light, his eyes widened, glinting with worry.

"Guinevere?" he repeated. She knew he probably thought himself still locked within a dream. A faint smile crept over her lips, and she covered his with her hand as she had the night before, moving closer to him.

"I'm here, my love," she reassured him. "I was no dream." _No, I wasn't a dream this time. I am here, and I will not have come in vain: you are to get well. It is an order. Get well, and we shall return to Arthur. To Arthur. _By now, he would have gotten her note, and though worried, she prayed he would not send anyone to seek her out. Such news could not be communicated at a distance.

This time, he allowed her to pull her hand away, but clearly the fact that she was there gave him more comfort than he could possibly put into words, ill or not ill. _My love._ That's what he was. How had she ever become so tied up in two men's hearts? Just two days before, Arthur had called her just that: and she knew it was the truth…the unfortunate truth. He needed to forget her. Lancelot needed to go home. She would follow him for as long as he would let her, no matter if he went to the ends of the earth. And, honestly, part of her desire for separation was cowardice: she did not wish to face Arthur.

Lancelot inhaled slowly. "I thought I had dreamt you," he confessed. "I was sure of it. I thought…I did not wish to wake. I thought, perhaps, I might find you in death, even if you were still alive." There was a note of sadness and of guilt there now. He had been ready to give up on life. Had she saved him, truly?

"I will be here until you are healed, Lancelot. You _will_ recover…I shan't have it any other way. And when you do…" _There will be a world of possibilities, then._ "When you do, I would go anywhere with you…and, if you would have me…I would be your wife." There. She'd said it. It had been on her mind before. The last thing she wished was to scare him away using that idea. If he did not desire marriage, she would understand. But, if he did…

Mercifully the knight showed no distaste for this proposition, and instead he grinned, showing a minute part of his old self. "If _I _would have _you_, is it?" His laugh dissolved into a cough, and her brows creased.

"You should go back to sleep. I shall stay here all day if it is where you are. This is not a dream…you have no fear of losing me." She smiled again, thinking how strange and sudden this deep devotion was. They had just found each other, and now they were speaking of living as husband and wife. Some things in her life, perhaps she would never be able to explain. The gods were unpredictable, but she did not deny the possibility that love had been written in each person's life, for good or for ill, before they came into existence on the earth. The idea was not there merely to comfort her. She was sure it was fact.

As suddenly as he had gone the evening previous, Merlin entered then, observing the couple silently for a moment. Lancelot's eyes had closed again and his breathing evened out to being slow, barely audible. The old Woad came over to Guinevere's side, laying a hand on the top of her head. She looked up at him as she had as a child. Her dark eyes met his, and she frowned in curiosity, her eyes asking for her.

He shook his head and, only answering her with a small smile, pulled her over to the other side, the injured side, of Lancelot's body. Gently Merlin pulled back the blanket, revealing his pale chest. Likely there had been bandages over the wound before, but it was now scarred, puckered, angry-looking, but not open. Still…he was not healing? Why? Guinevere felt her pulse race, seeing it, that Saxon's legacy, marring the already-scarred skin of Lancelot's muscled but very weak body. _Oh, my love, my love! Forgive me. If I had come earlier, you would be walking and training by now. If I had come earlier, I would have spared you wasting away all these months, languishing between life and death._

Then Merlin was lifting one of her slender hands, and he placed it over the wound. It felt much as it had in the dream, but this was cold reality. The only gratification was Lancelot's pulse, just lower than her hand, which felt strong.

"He will live, my daughter. Never fear," Merlin said, patting her hand in a way she feared would break open the long-healed scar. He was gone, quick and enigmatic as always, and she felt suddenly fearful in a way she could not explain. _Lancelot, Lancelot, come back to me! Where are you now, my love? You would never cry out for anyone, not even the woman you loved, as yourself as though you were frightened and defenseless. Oh, Lancelot!_

The tears Guinevere despised were dampening her face anew. She blinked, yet they would not be stifled.

"Come back to me," she whispered, losing all her semblance of strength.

Another few minutes ticked by, uneventful. She measured them in the only way she could: agonizing stretches of breathing, of heartbeats…of _life_. The aches of sleeping on the ground were coming into Guinevere's body, making her feel all the more anxious and foreign. She longed to become a creature of the wood as she had been once, what felt like a very long time ago…longed for it more than anything save Lancelot's recovery. What was she doing there, when she had more place in Hadrian's Wall by Arthur's side than in the Woad village of late? She had lost herself.

All of a sudden, when she was of course not expecting it, Lancelot gasped.

And he sat up. _Sat up!_

The knight's breathing was considerably faster, great heaving gulps for the spiced air, and new beads of sweat broke out along his hairline. Guinevere grinned then laughed, which was infectious. The cough had gone. Everything about him looked far less weakened. He looked more and more like the old Lancelot.

"I've come back," Lancelot confirmed, reaching out to run a hand across her cheek. The look in his eyes said the rest. _I'm in no hurry to leave again._

The next few days were not swift enough, yet nor could they have gone by any faster. It was a strange combination, Guinevere had to admit: on one hand, she was anxiously awaiting Lancelot to be fully healed. Whatever Merlin had done on the first morning of her visit had been truly miraculous, to say the least, and it had gone a long way to speed up the handsome knight's health. Nevertheless, he had to learn to do many other things again – slowly. He had not walked in almost three months, and Guinevere took great care in walking with him every day, letting him lean almost completely against her, at first.

On the other hand, she could not have savored more dearly the time she spent with him there, in the place where she had been raised – or at least, with the people who had raised her. Several of the Woad men joked, in their own language, about being disappointed Guinevere had found another love, but for the most part everyone approved of her heart's choice. Merlin especially was glad to see her happy. She could not recall the last time she had felt quite so alive.

Both of them had been permitted to move to a larger, specially-built place for only the two of them. She was falling more and more in love with both him and the idea of spending their life together…and more and more disinclined to return to Hadrian's Wall.

The evening of the fourth or fifth day (who of them was counting, truly?) was the first where she felt able to relax. Lancelot was certainly out of true danger by then. He had only to keep his strength up, and he was doing much, much better. She was sitting with Lancelot, head against his shoulder, his chin resting on the top of her head, staring into the fire which still roared in the center of the dirt floor.

"I thought," He said quietly, "we might return, soon."

_Return. To Arthur…to Hadrian's Wall…_ "Perhaps we should. Arthur would be glad to know you still live," she agreed, her voice faint and reluctant. "I suppose he might be worried for me as well…"

She felt the weight of Lancelot's head lift from her own, and he gently tilted her chin up enough so he could look into her eyes. His own seemed fathomless, with pain and love so desperately mixed she wanted nothing more than to turn away from him. He knew, didn't he? He _had_ to know – everyone knew! – the way Arthur felt about her. Especially being his best friend. Surely, surely, he could understand that she wanted nothing less than to hurt him, her dear Arthur?

And there, that was her problem: she was in love with another man, and yet she was still thinking of him as her _dear_ Arthur. What was wrong with her? She simply couldn't be planning to marry Lancelot, yet be calling another man the partial keeper of her heart.

"We could stay here," Guinevere suggested, almost reluctantly. Not forever, he would never be happy.

But for long enough.

Lancelot looked stricken, as though she had just ripped open the painful wound that he had just vanquished once and for all. Nevertheless, he would not permit her to look away from him…not yet. It was as though he was searching for something in her face, some release from the terrible blow she had dealt him. Was it really such a terrible suggestion? They both loved Arthur, in their own ways…yet Arthur believed him dead. It would only hurt to lose him again, accompanied by the woman who he'd loved, if they ever were to go away from Briton. She had to accept, unfortunately, that none of her justifications were worth his beautiful face being contorted in suffering like that, even as her cowardly heart began imagining Arthur's similarly aggrieved. Would she _never_ escape breaking some man's heart, then?

"We'll go back," she amended hastily, yet that look would not go from Lancelot's face. And then, before she could stay her tongue, her somewhat over-dramatic thoughts poured out: "Oh, my love – what have I done wrong? Tell me, and I will mend it for you. Don't stare at me like that, like I've stabbed you in the heart. I came here for love of you, and I won't leave your side unless you no longer love me."

The silence stretched on for a terribly long time, but she didn't want to continue pressing him. He appeared almost _angry_, which was unbelievable to her. Had she really said something so serious?

"You love him." No question in Lancelot's voice. "You love Arthur. What a _fool_ I've been! You said you came here for love of me."

The accusation was quite honestly the last thing Guinevere had been expecting. She stared at him as though he had lost his mind. Did he even hear himself? She might have loved Arthur in some way…but she did _not_ want to spend her life with anyone but Lancelot. Why was he acting as though feeling something for his own best friend was such a crime? She hadn't even known he was still alive before five or six days previously, and the world of Arthur was still foreign to her. Arthur had rescued her, as much as Lancelot had. What had he been expecting?

Struggling to keep her voice even, she replied, "I've never loved anyone like I love you, Lancelot. Arthur loves _me_ – and it's that I cannot ignore. What am I to do? Break his heart? Even with you returned to him…I can hardly bear that idea." He had to understand. Arthur was the closest friend he had ever had!

Guinevere stood up, finally free of looking into those eyes which never, not even in his tumultuous anger and hurt, gave away what he was feeling. Why wouldn't he believe her? Everything had been perfectly fine – until she had suggested they not go back. And then he had drawn some out-of-the-blue conclusion about her being in love with Arthur. It made absolutely no sense to her why she should be there, nursing him back to health in a most loving fashion, if she was doing it out of a concern for Arthur. Then again…men, in general, made little sense to her. She could only relate to their fighting spirit in war…but nothing else. They were stubborn in a stupid way.

"Perhaps I ought to return without you. And then when you come, you might see how little I am with you gone from my side."

"Guinevere – "

It was too late for him to apologize that night. She would listen to him…but not yet. If _he_ wanted to go hurt Arthur the way she knew she had to…well, he _would_ be, but not quite in the same way. Arthur could understand him falling in love with her. But the other way around? She doubted she would be able to seek forgiveness for a long time. "I must speak with Merlin."

And then, leaving him in desolate silence, she left the hut altogether.


	5. Final Choices

**A/N: **This wasn't intended to be the last chapter, but it looks like it will be. It just…worked out that way, really. If people want me to, I may continue it. My computer's being stupid - so no lyrics for this chapter, yet.

**Disclaimer**: I own nothing, as usual.

* * *

The ride back to Hadrian's Wall was long. Slow. Silent. Guinevere had not asked for a second horse, instead insisting that Lancelot ride the one she had brought with her. A little over a week had passed, by that time, and she knew Arthur would soon be worried about her. Poor Arthur…he didn't know. But nor had the wound that had come between herself and Lancelot healed. They had avoided each other as best they could for the last two days of their stay in the Woad settlement. Merlin had smiled, sadly, when she finally announced they would be leaving. He blessed her, and sent them on their way. 

The muddy ground as they emerged from the forest's comforting sights and scents sunk gently beneath her slight form. Her feet sunk into the grass with every step. Hadrian's Wall loomed closer, like a warning. _Turn back!_ But she could not.

Obviously, the knights had been told by Arthur to keep a casual watch for Guinevere, because when they saw her, standing near the wall, just away from the training fields, Bors laughed and made one of his typically crude comments. However, they frowned when they realized she was not alone. All jaws dropped when they were able to see more clearly who was with her, and then disbelieving shouts met her ears. It should have been joy-filled for her as well. Why had she not reconciled with him?

Stepping away from the happy trio, who came rushing forward, disappointed that she would not be there to answer their questions but too shocked and overjoyed to see one of their lost brothers returned to them to much care. It appeared that it might soon rain, which would trap her inside with many answers to dispense.

Trap her inside with Lancelot, with Arthur.

"I feared you had gone forever."

Startled, Guinevere took her gaze from the ground. It landed on him, Arthur, his face grey but brightened with a very weary attempt at a smile. The apprehension coupled with the love that leaked from his voice made her pull a tight smile of her own. Sometimes, she wondered if she was not a truly awful person. Merlin should put everyone out of their misery, lock her up, something. She would no longer be there to seduce men whom she did not love utterly and completely. She would no longer there to get into shouting matches with men whose life she had been pleading for through tears days earlier. Arthur had probably gotten nothing done for the past few days, or else had been busy working too much, trying to stop himself from thinking about her.

"You have no followed my request," she teased, but she couldn't put her heart into it. "I asked you not to concern yourself about my welfare, Arthur."

He shook his head. "You asked me to do the impossible, surely you knew that."

A bitter smile lit _her_ face now. The impossible? He had been unable to accomplish that, while she had been helping Lancelot live again. _Arthur has been through much more than you, Guinevere. Give him credit, where his credit is long overdue._ Not even a priest of a religion to which Arthur was devoted could truly appreciate him. Only Lancelot, Bors…only Gawain, Galahad, and all the others…

"No, I was away doing the impossible," Guinevere protested gently. "Shall I show you?"

Intentionally interlacing her fingers with his, wondering why she wished to hurt Lancelot further, and mislead Arthur more than he had already been misled. But as her mind was questioning, she had already gone to where the knights had circled around the horse. Lancelot was smiling down at all of them, but he looked as though all he needed to do was rest – and perhaps if she was not seeking to be horribly stubborn, she would have insisted they let him do so.

Arthur's face, predictably, had drained of all its color. He managed to keep his mouth steadfastly closed, but the men's eyes met, and she wondered what they were saying to each other, what test Arthur was putting his best friend through to assure him he was truly Lancelot. After something like an eternity, he turned to face her.

One glance said it all. _How?_

And another angrily, from Lancelot: _How _can_ you?_

"Merlin saved him," she whispered, choosing to answer Arthur while forcing herself to ignore Lancelot's scathing look. It had burned her, and she was regretting her choice of revealing him to Arthur. "Merlin saved him and told none of us. Until…I had a dream, last week, Arthur, and I was sure it was a falsehood. But I went all the same, just to find Lancelot, alive…barely alive." Guinevere swallowed hard and raised her chin. "He was eager to return to you, and though I fear he is still not as strong as he could be, he would delay it no longer."

Neither man was paying any attention to Guinevere anymore, however, nor were they even looking at her. Instead, obviously both were focused on each other…as it should be, she imagined. Was it true that separation only made people grow fonder of one another?

"I have much to ask, and much to hear – but come, a storm will be upon us soon. Come inside!"

Oblivious to the look he must have been getting from Lancelot as he turned his back, Arthur squeezed Guinevere's hand. She wasn't sure what to do. Angry as she might have been with him, she had no desire to leave Lancelot's side. Arthur was already walking. She had to make her choice…and she knew what she _wanted _it to be. _You claim to be a warrior, Guinevere. Where is that strength now, then? _Her mind demanded angrily. Her head turned, and then she yanked her hand abruptly from Arthur's grasp.

He paused and frowned. "Guinevere? Is something wrong?"

_Yes. Everything is wrong, Arthur. You're in love with me, and I love Lancelot. That's what's wrong. Please, please forgive me. You will…won't you?_

"No," Guinevere lied deftly. "I think I should return this horse to the stables, however. I will be only a moment, Arthur – do not let me keep you." She knew he'd want to protest, but she'd put enough of an edge in her voice to – hopefully – keep that from happening.

Reluctantly, Arthur proceeded to go indoors, followed by all the knights save Lancelot, who had just dismounted. He had a hand on the mare's long neck, and those dark eyes of his were watching her with a new light, as though he had never really seen her before. Had she made up for her injury and silence, then? She could only hope so – being with him yet not, which was what it felt painfully close to, was only hurting both of them. How had she come to a point where she was asking two men for their forgiveness and the point where she'd been in control of both their hearts? She didn't really care for that situation.

He reached out to touch her cheek, but she shied away from him; they had not even apologized verbally to one another yet. Guinevere hardly felt bad for wishing to get that out of the way before resuming physical contact with him. Their eyes met once more, and she could see that he was as much begging for her pardon as she was his. It touched her, for she doubted she would ever have been able to read Arthur's eyes so clearly.

"I misjudged you, my love. Forgive me."

Guinevere shook her head. "Misjudged? No. We both love Arthur in our own way. Just now I used that to cause you pain, so I am much to fault as well. Yet you should know that my love for Arthur is nothing like my love for you."

"How are we to tell him?" Lancelot murmured, looking forlorn. She believed he was speaking more to himself than to her, and so she took his hand after a few moments' hesitation. The stable boys were approaching to return the mare to her stall.

A shadow passed over her pale face for a moment, but she sighed and held his hand a little more tightly. Being near him at all was a comfort. She had no idea how they were going to face the future…but it scarcely mattered, at that moment. Being with her beloved Lancelot was like walking hand-in-hand with a miracle. What other word could possibly describe him so accurately? He was everything to her, whereas before, she had barely realized he was there. He had been the dark, courageous warrior, who was Arthur's close friend…but he had rarely lingered in her mind. _How quickly times change!_

Finally, she spoke again: "I don't know there to be an easy way to go about it…but we _will_ find a way, Lance. We will."

Again, their gazes locked. Again, his told her everything she needed to know without him voicing a single word. _I cannot live without you. You are my savoir, Guinevere. The gods sent you to me. You _are_ my Goddess, for it is said she takes many forms. I will brave Arthur's anger, if only for your sake._

Faintly she smiled, warmed by that expression. _And I will turn aside from Arthur's glory to be with you forever and a day. I will be content to be your wife and your love, wherever that path might take me._

"Lancelot! Guinevere!" Bors shouted from the gate.

Thunder rumbled ominously across the sky, and Bors ducked inside again, impatient with them. Guinevere laughed softly, and as she lifted her gaze to the black clouds above them, heavy rain began to fall in a curtain over the emerald countryside and into the Woads' forest. Then she and Lancelot began to walk, fingers still laced tightly with one another's, towards Hadrian's Wall…towards destiny, mindless of the unforgiving rainfall.

She stopped him before they slipped through the gate, and laying a hand against his rough, unshaven cheek, she kissed him. Not fiercely and passionately…but sweetly, the kind of sweetness Arthur always seemed to manage in his kisses so well, except she was not thinking about Arthur at that moment, not about anything but Lancelot. And there, in the softening spring rains, Lancelot wrapped his arms around her and kissed her tenderly in return, and when they broke apart, they were filled with courage, for no obstacle was too great to overcome for the sake of love.

Even death.


End file.
